


Too Far Away: A Reunion

by Megg33k



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, Fluff, M/M, Minor Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-18
Updated: 2012-08-18
Packaged: 2017-11-12 09:01:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/489108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Megg33k/pseuds/Megg33k
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock returns after 3 years; John reacts...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Too Far Away: A Reunion

**Author's Note:**

> Post-Reichenbach reunion after a glimpse at some of Sherlock's and John's lives whiles they're separated, season 2 spoilers obviously
> 
> Inspired by my own art: http://media.tumblr.com/tumblr_m8r46bXW1T1r7ehaz.jpg

John rolled over, still drowsy from yet another shit night’s sleep, and blindly fumbled for his phone on the nightstand. He peeked out through half-lidded eyes, wincing as the device flashed to life. The blackout drapes did a marvelous job of blocking the sun, but there was no escaping the glaring light from an LCD screen in a pitch black room.

_3 new messages_

His heart skipped a beat, just as it did every time he had a shred of hope that Sherlock might not be dead. He couldn’t breathe as his thumb hovered over the “view messages” prompt. He tapped the cool glass, and the millisecond between action and reaction felt like an eternity.

_John, please reconsider. Living there isn’t healthy for you. -Harry_

Remnants of their fight from the night before… and the night before that… and the night before that, he rolled his eyes. The argument didn’t always begin the same way, but the ending was growing too predictable.

“Please,” Harry would say, “just for a little while.”

He would sigh and shake his head. “But what if-“

“He’s gone, John. Stop it. Just stop it.”

“Why? Why should I?”

“You’re being ridiculous.”

“I’m not allowed to believe?”

“No. It’s been over three years. You aren’t allowed to believe anymore.”

“You don’t understand.”

“I do. I know what it’s like to miss someone, John. The house still feels empty without Clara.”

He always managed to hold it together until she played the Clara card. “Clara? Really? _You_ left Clara! You walked out on her, served her divorce papers, and never looked back. _You abandoned her_. How dare you compare your failure to… to… _this?_ And, still, you cling to hope for the two of you, but I can’t do the same?”

“There is still hope for us.”

“There’s NOT!”

“There is. At least _Clara’s_ alive!”

“So is Sherl-” John’s voice caught in his throat. He still couldn’t bear to say the name. Instead, he ended the call.

He felt the great tragedy of the technological age was the inability to hang up a phone with conviction, slam down a receiver in disgust. You can only press the image of a button on a screen with so much fervor and only slam the phone on the table to a certain degree. He had learned that the hard way. His insurance no longer replaced phones for him anymore. It seemed three was their hard limit.

_John? -MH_

_You’ve gone silent again, John. Should I drop in? -MH_

Mycroft was the last thing he needed. The only perk, if there could be a perk, to Sherlock’s absence should have been seeing less of his infernal brother. That, however, wasn’t the case. He’d deal with that later; it was time for his morning ritual.

Much like his conversations with Harry, the next item on his agenda didn’t always start the same way but always ended the same.

_Slept like shit. I blame you. I had another of those dreams. You weren’t falling this time. I suppose that’s a small blessing. You came back this time. It was actually a good dream. Then, I woke up and you weren’t here. Bubble popped. Felt like seeing you fall all over again. Maybe worse. It felt like a broken promise. I miss you. -JW_

He had sent one-thousand, one-hundred and seventy messages before that one, always before getting out of bed, always ending in “I miss you.” Maybe that one would be lucky number eleven-hundred and seventy-one? Not likely. He sent it anyway.

**

Somewhere, across town or across the world, another phone buzzed. John’s voice rang out, “Sherlock.” A sad smile graced the detective’s usually-stoic face, just as it always did when he heard that voice. He had recorded once, quite honestly by accident. He had handed John his phone, insisting he couldn’t possibly send a text himself, and something had gotten pressed or some application opened. He still wasn’t sure how it happened. He only knew the circumstances from John’s tone. It was that timbre of feigned aggravation he heard every time he asked John to do something he ought to have done himself. He let John get away with it, mostly because he liked it. He could hear the briefest glint of a choked back smile. John was amused by his antics and always had been, but he would never have wanted Sherlock to know. So, he pretended not to notice. He just routinely found mundane chores and begged John to do them for him, to amuse John and to hear that voice again.

Across town or across the world? Vague. It didn’t matter where he was. He was too far away. Any distance could feel like a million miles, so long as crossing it was impossible. Therefore, it didn’t matter. Sherlock knew how far apart they were, of course he did. He knew exactly how many kilometers, how many minutes, perhaps even how many steps. But he couldn’t sit next to John to read his morning paper, nicking his breakfast after refusing the doctor’s offer to make a plate for him as well. He couldn’t see John wince when he had missed something simple, something human, said something that was “a bit not good.” He couldn’t hear John’s quickened breath and rapid heartbeat when a case started to get exciting. Of all the things he couldn’t do, that was the most bitterly painful. He couldn’t hear John’s heartbeat, and that’s how he knew he was too far away.

He picked up the phone and read the message, the only one he would receive all day. He spoke it out loud; he always spoke it out loud. The words hung in his throat. “It felt like a broken promise.” He choked on them. John wasn’t just gently tugging at the heartstrings anymore; he was tearing them out.

Sherlock’s mind, his beautiful, flawless, awful, dangerous mind wouldn’t leave it alone. It wouldn’t let the message be. He couldn’t stop the information from flooding his Mind Palace and invading the darkened corners he tried so hard to avoid. The messages were changing. John used to say he didn’t understand what was going on but knew there must be a good reason. Now though? A broken promise? They weren’t understanding; they were accusatory. John was transitioning from denial to anger. He was losing faith. He was _grieving._

Bile rose in Sherlock’s throat, threatening a violent escape. John was grieving for him. What did he expect though? Who stays in denial for that long? John Watson did, but no more it seemed. Three years, two months, two weeks, and one day. Maybe it was just too long to expect someone to believe when everyone around them is saying they have to stop.

_I can’t do this anymore. I can’t make him wait any longer. –SH_

_You must. It’s not safe yet. Just a little longer. –MH_

_I’m losing him. –SH_

_He’s strong. He’ll be fine. –MH_

_He’s been strong for long enough. –SH_

_Think of your safety. Your safety is important. –MH_

_He’s more important. –SH_

_You’re signing your death warrant, probably his too. –MH_

_We’ll get by. I’m going home. –SH_

_You realize what a nightmare the paperwork will be if you die… again? -MH_

_Good. Something for me to look forward to in death. –SH_

**

John sat at the table eating toast and drinking his morning tea. He often glanced at Sherlock’s empty chair, hot tea and folded newspaper waiting on his return just like every morning since his… fall. Even in his mind, he couldn’t call it death. A bloodied face? A pulseless wrist? Sherlock was clever, too clever. It could have been a ruse. After three years? He glared into space, demanding his sense of logic stay out of it. It was his delusion, and he’d see it any way he liked.

He brushed the crumbs from the tabletop onto his plate, placed his empty cup in the center, and set it all in the sink. He needed to go out, to think. Grabbing his jacket off the coat hook, he stopped to stare at Sherlock’s coat and scarf, a gift from Mycroft. John insisted they not be cleaned, even though the rust streaks served as a constant reminder of what had happened. PTSD from Afghanistan? No. From the fall? Maybe a bit. The fall was worse than the war. He lifted a tail of the scarf to his face and breathed deeply. After so long, the only scent that remained was the traces left in his memory. It was enough though. Enough crazy for one day; places to go.

He pulled on his jacket and reluctantly picked up his cane before locking up and hobbling down the stairs. Yes, his limp had returned. Of course it had returned. So what? Shut up. He’d limp if he damn well pleased. Considering how much it hurt him just to be alive, he was lucky he hadn’t picked up a constant, psychosomatic heart attack. After all, that’s where the pain always seemed to start.

**

When John came home several hours later, Mrs. Hudson met him with a peculiar stare. She hadn’t been around when he left, but it was no reason for her to act so strangely. He eyed her warily in return.

He finally spoke. “Yes? Is there a problem?”

“I just… I thought you were already here.”

“Yeah, but I wasn’t. I mean, I was this morning, but I went out for a bit.”

“Have you been gone long?”

“Long enough. What’s going on? Is everything okay?”

“Yes. Well… I believe so. It’s just the music. Did you leave music on, dear?”

John shook his head. “What kind of music?”

“The telly? Did you leave the telly on?”

He shook his head again. “I don’t think I’ve had the telly on in days. What music?”

“The violin, dear. I know you play now. I hear you sometimes. It’s nice. You’re not quite as good as he was, but it’s nice to hear it again. Never thought I’d miss that music…” she trailed off.

“Mycroft.” He winced. “I forgot to text Mycroft back. I’m sure it’s him. He threatened to stop in.” He noticed he was talking to himself. Mrs. Hudson had wandered away.

As John slowly ascended the stairs, he tried to play out what awful conversion he’d be forced in to this time. It was always the same things:

“You don’t have to live here, John.”

“I see things, John.”

“I’ll know if he comes back, John.”

Even though Mycroft always humored his musing that Sherlock might return, John was tired of hearing the same responses over and over again. It was boring. Boring? He sounded like Sherlock, sans gunshots. He placed his hand on the doorknob and turned it, wondering where he might find the insolent man this time. It was almost like a game of hide and seek, but it was never any fun. If winning was finding Mycroft, he always hoped to lose. A game isn’t much of a game when you always hope you’ll lose though.

Wait. He didn’t unlock the door. It was open. He was about to win that dreadful game yet again, and he knew it. He hung his coat back on the hook and placed the cane back against the wall. Mycroft couldn’t resist a cup of tea, so he headed for the kitchen first. No Mycroft. As he passed the table, something caught his eye though. The chair had moved. The chair that never moved had moved. Not only that, but the newspaper was disturbed and the cup was empty. For the briefest moment, he felt like he had genuinely deduced something. Then he realized he already knew he had a visitor, and he wasn’t so impressed with himself anymore. Still… How very rude to just help himself.

As he crossed the living room, he noticed something else out of place. The smiley face… _Sherlock’s smiley face_ … There was knife stabbed right between its eyes, a slip of paper stuck to the wall with the blade. He rolled his eyes. Thanks, Mycroft. What a way to leave a note. He made his way across the room to the note and read:

_I can explain everything if you’ll let me. -SH_

It was cruel, even for Mycroft. He pulled the knife out of the wall and stared at the scrap of paper. The handwriting… It didn’t look like Mycroft’s handwriting. The ink smudged under the pressure of his thumb… It was still fresh. He took two steps before the violin music floated down the hall and filled his ears. One problem: It didn’t sound like Mycroft.

He sprinted toward the bedroom and was surprised to find the door closed. He should have been worried about what or whom he might find on the other side of the door, but knowing was more important than being cautious. The music stopped as the door creaked open. There before him sat a ghost. He was perched on the edge of the bed and gently cradled the now-silent string instrument.

John was too deep in disbelief to properly express the physical signs of shock. The man who looked identical in every way to Sherlock Holmes, on the other hand, looked extremely unsettled. Hallucination, apparition, or whatever else he may have been, he had no right to be surprised by John’s presence in his own flat. John watched as he set the violin and bow safely behind him and stood. The silence, cut only by the gentle rustling of bed sheets, was deafening.

The startling realization running through John’s mind was that he honestly didn’t know he had believed Sherlock was dead. It wasn’t until he saw the man standing in front of him, obviously a replica or a clone of some sort, maybe even a state-of-the-art hologram. As those seemingly ludicrous options flooded his brain and sounded more plausible than the possibility that his best friend had finally returned, it was blatantly clear he had never really thought Sherlock was still alive.

Sherlock could see the gears turning. He could almost smell the smoke rising from inside John’s head. He wanted to help, but the words wouldn’t come. He searched for them, high and low, but to no avail. Oh, come on. He was supposed to be a genius. He was a genius. How ridiculous. Words jettisoned by, none of them correct, until… He saw the phrase and plucked it from the air just before it flew past his mind’s eye. It rolled off his tongue, far too pretentious to have been planned or scripted.

“If you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.”

John scowled. The voice… It was _his_ voice. How did they copy _his_ voice? His limp seemed to disappear as walked closer to examine figure, which spoke exactly as he remembered Sherlock speaking. His right index finger traced the ridge of a glorious cheekbone, one that wouldn’t dare grace the face of another human being, and the flesh was warm under the pad of his fingertip. If this was a figment of his imagination, it was a very good one. He was impressed.

Sherlock placed his hand atop his bewildered friend’s and spoke the only word he could fathom speaking. “John.”

John slowly lowered his right hand as his left fist connected with Sherlock’s jaw, knocking him flat on his arse. It stung his knuckles. It felt real enough. 

From the floor, Sherlock tilted his head to one side and opened his mouth wide to test his mandible was still functioning properly. Satisfied that it was, he considered standing. The look on John’s face gave him pause though. He was a bit rusty, never having been great at reading emotion, but he was almost certain he’d find himself in the same position via similar means were he to get his feet under him.

He tried to speak again. “John, I-“

John stood over the man and dropped to his knees, Sherlock’s thighs positioned between and nearly touching his own. The violet fabric of Sherlock’s shirt was clenched tight in his fists, and John stared into the steely, gray-blue abyss of his eyes… those translucent, familiar, mesmerizing eyes. No one else could have those eyes and that voice and those cheekbones. No one else could be so ostentatious at such an inappropriate time. Tears soon clouded his vision, because after eliminating the impossible, the truth was all that remained. _Sherlock_ was all that remained.

John snaked his arms around Sherlock’s neck. He pulled his long lost friend close and held on for dear life. His body quaked as he sobbed into Sherlock’s shoulder, the pale violet cloth darkening as it became soaked through with tears. He knew he should let go, but he couldn’t.

Sherlock, surprising even himself, soon found one of his arms cinched tightly around John’s waist. The fingers of his other hand had settled in John’s hair and gently cupped his occipital bone. What? He couldn’t help it. It’s just how he thought, how he classified things. It didn’t cheapen the moment… At least, that’s what he told himself.

For a third time, he tried to say something appropriate. “John, I didn’t mean-” He had gotten further, but it was no use. He was distracted… distracted by John.

John’s eyes glistened, still wet with tears. His hand, generally steady in times of stress, trembled as he raised it to rest against Sherlock’s cheek. His thumb caressed the severe bow of Sherlock’s upper lip, and he studied it. It was suddenly fascinating. Everything about the man was suddenly fascinating. The fact he was there… real… _alive_ … It was all fascinating and absolutely brilliant.

Their foreheads gingerly met as John closed his eyes, his eyelashes tickling, fluttering against Sherlock’s lids. John’s breaths were short and labored. His heartbeat, that heartbeat Sherlock had so desperately missed, was rapid. His body was tensed. Sherlock had never been good with this sort of thing. He was out of sorts and confused. He was confused because had never enjoyed being out of sorts before. Helpless, he waited for John to do something… anything.

When John eventually pulled back, he opened his mouth to speak. “Sherlo-” He still couldn’t say the name.

Sherlock felt John’s palms, warm and rough, on either side of his face. John leaned close, their noses nearly touching. The space between them was imperceptibly small, even to Sherlock. They shared was seemed like an incredibly finite air supply, and it was shrinking more with each passing second. Hot breath escaped through the tenuous part in John’s lips; Sherlock was all but suffocating, drowning in their atypical level of intimacy. John’s lips were naught but a micrometre from Sherlock’s when panic set in.

“What are you doing, John?” Sherlock whispered pensively.

John’s reply came in the form of two words, quiet but firm, and each followed by a hard stop. “Shut. Up.”

Before he could even consider a response, John’s upper lip was nestled snuggly between Sherlock’s. His eyelids fell shut, and he leaned in to the kiss without so much as a moment’s hesitation. John nipped lightly at his bottom lip, the sting immediately soothed by the Army doctor’s warm tongue. Though unaccustomed to such an exchange with one another, John’s lips glided effortlessly over Sherlock’s. They formed a seamlessly perfect fit.

John eventually drew back and stared again. He could see Sherlock’s bemusement written all over his face. “You’re a brilliant fool… a beautiful, brilliant fool, Sherlock Holmes.” He said it. Finally, he spoke that blasted name.

Sherlock’s voice shook as he responded. “I… I don’t understand.” It was out of character for him, but it was honest.

John was on a roll, his confidence renewed after choking out the word which had evaded him for more than three years. “You’re an idiot, but I love you. God help me, I love you.”

It was a lot to process. John had just said several things which were foreign to Sherlock’s ears. He couldn’t remember the last time someone had said they loved him. It was even less common for anyone to suggest he was an idiot. Still, amidst the overwhelming sense of fear, he felt joy. It had been years since he’d felt joy. He thought about why he had gone in the first place and how it felt to be away. Then, he thought about why he had insisted on coming back, safe or not. It seemed obvious now, _so very obvious_. He _was_ an idiot. “I love you too, John.”

John smiled; Sherlock had missed the smile more than he ever realized. Sherlock wrapped himself around John, who happily curled into the embrace, and held him firmly. “I’ll never leave again,” he promised.

“Damn right.” John planted a gentle kiss on Sherlock’s collar bone and nuzzled into the crook of his neck.

There was so much to say, so much time in need of reconciliation, but their thoughts were drowned out by sound of their heartbeats. The lull of the thump-thump rang in Sherlock’s head and told him he was finally close enough once again. Almost never at a loss for words, always dying to say something clever, he was actually content. After so much time alone, he thought he’d never want to sit in silence again. This silence was different though. It was a silence he thought he could get used to.

Somewhere, on a bedroom floor in a London flat, Holmes and Watson sat reunited. There were battles behind them, and there would be battles ahead. There was a chance it would even get dangerous. But, for that moment, they sat in silence, wrapped safely in the arms of love.


End file.
